Chapter One

      London—1815

      Oliver paused before entering the butcher’s shop situated a few streets north of Russell Square. In the past year he’d been to many places a titled gentleman wouldn’t normally venture in search of his missing wife, but never in his life had he had cause to go into a butcher’s shop before.

      Regarding the hanging cuts of meat with curiosity, he pushed open the door, looking up as the bell tinkled, and walked in. A large man wielding an oversized meat cleaver flashed him a smile, indicating he would be with him once he’d finished slicing the half a pig that was hanging over the rear of the counter.

      ‘How can I help you, sir?’ the butcher asked as he wiped his bloodied hands on a white rag. ‘Got some lovely fresh pork if you’re interested.’

      Despite the man’s words, Oliver could see the hint of mistrust in his eyes—the butcher knew already Oliver wasn’t there to buy anything.

      ‘I’m looking for my wife,’ he said without any preamble. He’d been in similar situations hundreds of times over the last year and honed his speech to be concise and to the point.

      The butcher frowned.

      ‘I spoke to a delivery boy last week who thought he might have seen her in this area, most specifically in your shop.’ Taking a miniature portrait from his pocket, he held it out to show the butcher. ‘Her name is Lady Sedgewick, although she might be using a different name.’

      Oliver watched the man closely and wondered if he saw the tiniest spark of recognition in his eyes.

      ‘Name doesn’t sound familiar,’ the butcher said, buying himself some time.

      ‘And the woman in the picture?’

      ‘Why are you looking for her?’

      Oliver felt his pulse quicken. Just over a year he’d been searching for Lucy, a year of disappointment and dead ends. Every time he thought he might be drawing closer it came to nothing, but perhaps he was finally getting somewhere.

      ‘She’s my wife.’

      ‘Lots of reasons a wife might not want to be found by her husband.’

      ‘I mean her no harm,’ Oliver said and it was the truth. He’d never wanted to harm Lucy despite everything she’d put him through.

      The butcher regarded him for some moments and then nodded as if satisfied.

      ‘Looks a bit like a young woman who comes in once a week from the St Giles’s Women’s and Children’s Foundation. I sell them our offcuts of meat at a reduced price.’

      ‘Where is this Foundation?’ Oliver asked, already knowing the answer, but hoping he was wrong.

      ‘St Giles, of course,’ the butcher said with a grin. ‘Though, you’ll need a guide if you want to get in and out of there in one piece.’

      ‘Thank you for your help,’ Oliver said, holding out a few coins for the man’s trouble. The butcher pocketed them with a nod, then turned back to the pig carcase.

      Stepping outside, Oliver took a moment to digest the information he’d just been given. In the year he’d been searching for her he’d imagined the worst, Lucy and their child dead in a ditch somewhere in the country, Lucy having to sell her body on the streets of London, his firstborn son growing up in the filthiest, most dangerous slums, but never had he considered St Giles.

      It was a slum, of course, probably the most notorious slum in London, but no outsiders ever ventured in, not if they wanted to leave again with their lives. He couldn’t imagine how Lucy had ended up there, nor could he understand how living in St Giles could be better in any way than living a life of comfort as his wife.

      During his years in the army Oliver had never shied away from dangerous skirmishes and he wasn’t the sort of officer who stood back and allowed his troops to go into battle first. However, the thought of venturing into St Giles alone sent shivers down his spine. Nevertheless, he strode south. Today would be the day he found his wife and discovered what had happened to his son. Even if it meant navigating the treacherous, warren-like streets of the slum.

      Just as he was about to skirt around the back of Montague House, the impressive building that housed the British Museum, he caught sight of a woman hurrying away from him down Montague Street. Her back was to him, but he felt his stomach clench in recognition. She was slender and clad in a brown woollen dress, skirts swishing about heavy and practical boots. The woman’s hair was pulled back into a bun that rested at the base of her neck, wispy dark blonde tendrils had escaped and were coiling over her shoulders. It could be the back of a thousand women, perhaps a housekeeper or a shopkeeper’s wife, but there was something about the way she carried herself, something about the way she walked.

      ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he murmured to himself as he felt his feet changing direction. In the months after his wife had disappeared he had fancied he’d seen her everywhere: strolling through Hyde Park, on the other side of a crowded ballroom, even in the face of a serving girl at the local tavern near his country estate. A year ago he’d barely known his wife, he was hardly likely to recognise her from just the back of her head now. It was just because his hopes had been raised by the butcher—that was why he thought he was seeing her here.

      Unable to listen to his own reason, Oliver picked up his pace. If he could just get in front of the woman, surreptitiously pause and turn to look at her, he would be able to satisfy himself that it wasn’t Lucy without frightening an innocent young woman. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he strode along the pavement, dodging the couples walking arm in arm and the groups of men deep in conversation.

      The woman in front of him crossed the street, heading away from the more salubrious area of Russell Square and towards St Giles. His hopes soared and he stepped out on to the road, racing for the pavement opposite. He was only four feet behind her now, almost close